Killing Keys

CHAPTER 1

"9-1-1, do you need police, fire, or ambulance?’

Police!... Ambulance!  Fuck! I don’t know!...  She’s dead!

At the words she’s dead, the dispatcher straightened in her seat.  Looking at the 911 address screen, she verified the location of the call:  841 Tonkeau Circle, Merritt Island.  Sir, are you at 841 Tonkeau Circle? she asked the hysterical male on the line.

YES!  Get me an ambulance.  NOW!  She’s not breathing!  Fuck!  Oh Jesus!

Signaling the radio operator, Louise, across the room to look at the call coming across her Computer Automated Dispatch screen, Lisa thought rapidly.  Sir, who isn’t breathing?  What exactly happened?

I don’t fucking know !  There’s blood everywhere.  My girlfriend.  Oh shit!  Stephanie!  Please, just get the cops and an ambulance here.  Now!  Her face...!

Pulling the call for service up onto her CAD screen, Louise looked at Lisa.  I’ll call BCFR and get the ambulance going.

Nodding, Lisa placed one hand over the phone.  Make sure the paramedics know to stage.  Sounds really bad and we don’t know if the scene is secure.

Will do.

I’ve got four cops and the K9 responding, said a third operator.

Hello!  Hello!  Are you there?  Goddamnit!  The hysterical male voice on 911 echoed.  Raising a thumb up to the central area radio operator in acknowledgment of the information, Lisa went back to her phone.  Knowing that the Brevard County Fire Rescue dispatcher would get an ambulance to the scene as quick as possible, Lisa turned her attention back to the frantic caller.  We’re here Sir.  The police and the ambulance are on the way.  I need you to check for a pulse and see if she’s breathing.

—————

Detective Corporal Belfonce Grant rolled over with a groan.  Peeping over a dark skinned, well-muscled shoulder she glanced at the digital display on the alarm clock next to the ringing phone.  12:40 a.m.  The number on the phone was dispatch.  Shit, I just dozed off twenty minutes ago.  As the policewoman fumbled for the phone, her boyfriend groaned and shifted onto his side.  Tearing her gaze from the taut derriere and nicely muscled back, the result of years of racquetball and kayaking, she answered the call.  Corporal Grant.

Detective?  It’s Lisa in dispatch.  We’ve got one for you.  Probable murder.

Where at?

It’s right off Tropical Trail.  841 Tonkeau Circle, T-O-N-K-E-A-U.  A young woman.

What was the manner of death?

Blunt trauma to the head.  Sergeant Taylor is on scene as incident commander.  Crime Scene is enroute too.

Okay.  Give me Taylor’s cell.  I’ll get the info from him.

Yes ma’am.  Hope your evening was fun; sounds like your night’s gonna be a bear.

Jotting down the phone number on the pad on the nightstand, the thirty-seven year old African-American detective threw off the rest of the covers and placed her bare feet on the floor.  The plush Berber carpet felt soft between her toes and she took an instant to revel in the sensation.  Dad always wanted Berber carpet.  Too bad he couldn’t check this out. He’d never believe his baby girl became a police detective, much less that she could afford this place.  Well, at least Mark can anyway, she thought with a chuckle.  Maybe I should have been a nerd and taken up designing video games.  Checking the number the dispatcher had given her, Belfonce called Sergeant Taylor.  After hanging up from Sgt. Taylor, the detective hit speed dial 3.

Tony Bristol, said the deep voice.  Her partner sounded wide awake.

Pistol, it’s Belfonce.  We’ve got a live one.

Somehow I think you mean we’ve got a dead one.  How old, what sex, and how bad?

Seventeen.  Female.  Pretty bad according to the uniforms.  Head trauma; blunt.

Fuck!  By the way, how’s the boyfriend?  Still the Conquering Conquistador?

Mark’s naked body lay sprawled across the queen size bed.  After kicking off the covers, the handsome graphics designer had rolled onto his back and dozed off again.  The view was spectacular.  From my current perspective he’s quite a dick, and you’re just jealous, Belfonce said with a laugh.  How’s the wife?

Still ugly and no I’m not.  See you in ten?

Make it fifteen.  I have to put my make-up back on.

Yeah.  You do that.  And please comb out the sex hair.  I hate the kinky stuff.

You know you like it kinky.

True dat.  I’ll pick you up in fifteen.

—————

Winking at his wife of twelve years, Detective Bristol set his cell on the end table.  Got a murder hon.

Hooking her feet under her calves, Alicia Bristol gave a wan grin and sighed.  Will you be home soon?

I don’t know.  Probably not.  Some teeny bopper got her skull caved over off the Trail.  I’ve gotta get my stuff together and pick up Belfonce.

Okay.  I’ll see you when you get back.

Placing one hairy knuckled hand on the arm of the couch, Detective Anthony ‘The Pistol’ Bristol leaned over and gave his wife a peck on a plump cheek.  Don’t wait up.  I have a feeling it’ll be a long night.

That’s okay.  Brad and Angelina will keep me company.

That’s the spirit.  Grabbing his badge and sidearm, Bristol went to get his jacket.  Checking the clip and safety, he slid the pistol into its belt holster and went to find his car keys.

—————

Nodding at the patrolman at the end of the long, curved driveway, Belfonce showed her badge.

Morning Detectives, the young policeman said.

Racking her brain for the patrolman’s name, the detective said Evening Phil.  Where’s Sgt. Taylor?

Grinning at the whip thin black woman in the car the patrolman nodded his head to the left.  Up at the house.  It’s a real fucking circus.

Yeah.  And lucky me gets elected ringmaster, Tony said from where he sat behind the wheel of the ‘02 Chevy Malibu.

Fuck that Pistol.  I’m the ringmaster.  You’re just the clown.

Would that be Detective Bristol the Pistol? the young patrolman asked.

The one and only.

Hey, Terry in crime scene said I should ask you how you got that nickname.

Yeah, screw you, Bristol said – his chuckle removing the harshness from the comment despite his prominently raised middle finger.

Laughing, Belfonce elaborated.  Our esteemed detective here once pistol whipped a violent suspect while on a domestic abuse call.

Eyes widening, patrolman Phillippe Velazquez, said Really?  Isn’t that frowned upon?

Not necessarily, the laughing female detective said.  At least not when the suspect is a hundred-pound German Shepherd in the act of orally assaulting a police officer in the commission of his duty.

You pistol-whipped a dog?!

What the fuck would you do if a hundred-pounds of large-toothed dog was trying to bite your nuts off?  At least I didn’t’ shoot the bitch.

Grinning, Patrolman Velazquez leaned over and looked in the car window.  Ah, that explains how you got away unscathed:  The dog had no balls.  Don’t worry detective.  I’m told the family doesn’t own any dogs.  Satisfied that he had gotten in the last word that counted, the patrol deputy stepped back and, grinning at the antics of the two detectives that most thought of as Cheech and the Nubian Goddess, waved them onward.

I reiterate, screw you.  Holding up one finger toward the face in the passenger window, the laughing detective made his actions imitate his words. 

Rolling up the driveway, Bristol pulled the car behind a Brevard County Sheriff Office patrol car.  Stepping out, he quick stepped over to the passenger door and opened it.  Madam, we have arrived at your destination, he said.

Looking at her partner where he stood, ramrod straight at his whole five foot five inches, looking for all the world like Cheech Marin pretending to be a chauffeur, Belfonce laughed.  When are you going to fix that damn door?

What?!  And miss the opportunity to open it for the beautiful ladies like the proper gentleman you know I am?  Are you nuts?

Sighing, Belfonce shook her head and stepped out of the car.  Looking around at the property she let out a whistle.  The front lawn alone could hold three of her house.  There were several obviously well-tended flower gardens which showed up nicely in the glare from the flood lights that had been erected by the fire department who had arrived before them.  To the left was a large fountain with a statue of some Greek or maybe Roman soldier in it.  The muscular figure was clad in what appeared to be studded leather armor with a skirt-like bottom that came to the knees, a large round shield on one arm, a long spear held in its’ opposite hand.  At the foot of the soldier a woman knelt, water running from a jug in her hands to cover the feet of the warrior.  Beyond that stood the house, overlooking the river like a silent sentinel keeping watch for wayward ships.  The Spanish style manse was two stories tall and looked to go back forever, fronting onto the river with a dock in the rear.  Nice place.  Nice statue.

It’s a Hoplite.  As his cell phone rang the diminutive detective pulled it out.  Bristol.

Glancing at her partner, Belfonce quirked an eyebrow in query.

She’s right here L.T.

Taking the phone, Belfonce put it to her ear.  How the hell am I supposed to get ahold of you if you won’t ever answer your damn cell phone? said the voice of her boss, Lieutenant Riley.

Pulling her cell from her pocket she looked at it.  Off.  Pushing the button on the top right with one finger she held it for a few seconds until the little apple with the bite missing showed on the screen.  You know us terriers, Lieutenant.  Hate to be leashed.

Turn your damn cell on and give me an update before I lose the Beggin’ Strips, came the gruff reply.

Come on LT.  You know we need real bacon.  Well, we bitch terriers do, anyway.

Seriously Belfonce.  What you got?

We don’t know yet Lieutenant.  Pistol and I just got to the scene.

Okay.  I spoke with Sgt. Taylor about fifteen ago.  Doesn’t sound pretty.  Keep me posted.  We’re gonna have a media shit-storm.  You know how it is when some rich little white girl gets killed.

Indeed, I do.  I’ll keep you posted.  Clicking closed the cell, she handed it back to her partner.  Placing her own cell, now on and showing two missed calls from her boss, into a front pocket the detective corporal headed up to the house to confront what she was sure would be another horrific scene.

CHAPTER 2

*One Month Earlier*

Sighing, Nicholas Woodman looked at the pile of sweepings on the concrete.  For the thousandth time he thought how handy it would be to have a super-magnet on hand solely for the purpose of cleaning the floor of his uncle’s locksmith shop.  I could probably make ten keys just from the shavings that are left on this floor every day, he thought.  Leaning the broom against the wall, the young man stepped over the pile of metal shavings and went to find the dustpan.  After he was done with the clean-up, Nicholas wiped his hands on his tee shirt, took one last look around to ensure he wasn’t forgetting anything, then stepped out into the humid heat of a summer evening in Merritt Island, Florida.

Taking a deep breath of the salt laden ocean breeze blowing in from the nearby Atlantic, it’s refreshing odor only slightly marred by the less pleasant odor of the even nearer Banana River, Nicholas pulled out his cell phone.  Walking towards his second-hand Nissan Infiniti, he dialed Jackie’s number.  Following the third ring a perky It’s your buck and a half, why don’t you ever just text me? came through the receiver.

Because texting is too impersonal and I love the sound of your voice, beautiful, the nineteen-year old apprentice locksmith answered.

Well if that isn’t the right answer then I don’t know what is, his girlfriend replied with a laugh.  Aren’t you in a mood tonight?

Yep.  But..., he paused for a second, If you want to talk sexting, we can have a discussion.  Or maybe just sex.

Naughty boy.  So, what’s up for tonight Nick?

Glancing at his watch, Nicholas said It’s only 6:20.  How about we head over to Courtney and bowl a couple?  I could pick you up in fifteen?  Maybe catch a movie afterwards down at the mall?

Cool.  Is that new movie from the Kim Harrison book playing yet?  Black Magic Sanction.  Jacquelyn Mayton’s voice, normally fairly low for a seventeen-year old girl, raised in pitch as she gushed.  Hayden Panettiere is playing Rachel Morgan and I can’t wait to see how they handle the fairies.

Glad that Jackie couldn’t see him, Nicholas rolled his eyes.  Jackie was into ‘paranormal romance’ which meant sexy man vampires, witches, and ghosts and such.  At least Hayden Panettiere was hot, he thought, but if he heard one more time about Christina Dodd, Christine Feehan, or whether Jacob or Edward was hotter, he thought he’d puke.  Thank God that Twilight stuff was over.  I’m not sure but I don’t think so.  We can find out when we get there.  If nothing good’s playing we can always just hang at the mall for a few or maybe hit the beach...

Sounds great.  I’ll catch you in a few.  Gotta go do my hair.  Hey Mom!  I’m gonna be going bowling and to a movie with Nick, okay? she bellowed.

Tell her I said hi.  See you in a few.  Pocketing the cell, Nicholas turned the key and was gratified to hear the engine in his 2008 Infiniti kick over.

Cruising down Tropical Trail, Nicholas Woodman took in the sight of multiple beautiful mansions separated from the roadway by gorgeous garden bedecked lawns.  Here he was in sunny Florida, the retirement capital of the country, surrounded by gorgeously huge estates set by the river, most with personal docks to which were moored speed boats and expensive yachts, and barely a nickel to his name.  There’s got to be a way I can get a piece of that pie, he thought, but it ain’t happening as long as Mom’s stuck guiding brats around what’s left of Kennedy Space Center ...  Thoughts wandering as the tangy breeze from his open window stirred sandy brown locks, Nicholas’ gaze settled onto yet another Spanish style estate.  The guy who lives there wouldn’t bother to piss in this piece of shit car I drive.  Only way I’d get inside is to change his locks or clean his pool.  Shaking his head, he patted the dashboard.  Sorry babe, he said.  I know you’re a great old gal and I can always count on you.  Shaking off his maudlin thoughts, replacing them with more pleasant ones of a midnight stroll on the beach with Jackie, Nicholas began singing along with Brad Paisley as he belted out ‘Southern Comfort Zone.’

—————

Strike!  Hell yeah!  I’m on a streak.  Spinning on one heel, Nicholas did a fist pump and grinned at his girlfriend as she stuck her tongue out.  That’s 180 Jackie.  You need a turkey to catch me and it’s tenth frame.  Still grinning like an idiot, Nicholas plopped in the score keeper seat and took a gulp of his Pepsi.

I already have a turkey.  Or at least an ass, Jacquelyn Mayton replied with a twinkle in her light hazel eyes.

I’ll give you that one.  You definitely have an ass, Nicholas said with a salacious wink.  A nice one.

I was referring to you, jerk.  Come on, Little Nickie, I only need twenty-eight.  That’s two strikes and an eight.  Simple as pie.

None of that Little Nickie crap, Nicholas said with a grin.  You know Mom was an Adam Sandler fan.  Me, the boy shrugged, not so much.  You’re the only one I let get away with even calling me Nick.  But, it’s worth it; for the fringe benefits.

Stepping up to get her bowling ball from the return tray, Jackie gave her boyfriend a light peck on the top of his head.  Picking up the twelve-pound ball, the seventeen year old high school senior seated it properly on her hand.  Pausing for the guy in the next lane to go, Jackie glanced back.  Hey.  How’s the job going over at the Tulip?  You get good tips as a valet there?

Decent.  And my boss is pretty cool.  I’m hoping to get some more hours in this weekend.

Stepping up to the line, the teen said Cool.  Setting her stance, Jackie took a deep breath and eyed the smooth, waxed, wooden lane in front of her.  Eying the black arrow one to the right of the middle, she approached, and, throwing one foot behind the other, leaned in and threw the ball with all her strength.

Watching the 5’4" nicely curved young lady bend over and pose as she threw the ball brought a fresh grin to Nicholas’ face.  Yep.  Definitely a nice ass.  Tearing his gaze from the shapely contours of Jackie’s tight jeans, Nicholas checked the progress of the blue ball.

Come on... Come on...  Yes...  Yes...  Yes!  Strike!

As Jackie jumped up and down with glee, Nicholas smiled.  Only two more and you can beat me by two pins.  If you do it I’ll get you Twizzlers to go with the popcorn at the movie.

And if I don’t?

Well then..., hmmm..., we get to make out at the beach and you let me round second base without calling foul.

Jackie laughed.  I’m getting the impression that my bowling ball isn’t the only blue ball in the house.  You’re on!  As her twelve pound ball rolled out of the return slot and came to a stop with a dull thump against Nicholas’ heavier one, Jackie stepped back up and prepared for her next shot.

—————

There was no scratch on that door when I handed you my keys.  Goddamn incompetent little...

Taking a calming breath, Nicholas breathed out slowly.  Sir, I’m certain we can work this out.  I’ll be happy to get my supervisor.

Damn right you will.  Christ!  Can’t get any decent help these days.  Damn kids have no sense of propriety or concern.

Looking over the silk clad shoulder of the red faced restaurant patron, the young valet waved at his boss.

Sighing, Peter Delbaugh, closed the key box.  Another rich asshole who thinks it’s his mission in life to lord it over the inferior working class.  Just what I need on a busy Saturday night at prime dinner hour.  Excuse me sir, I’ll be right back, the valet supervisor said to the patron on whom he had been waiting.  The man gave him a sympathetic grin and replied, No problem.

How can I help you sir? Peter said, stepping up next to Nicholas and catching the disdainful gaze of the overweight gourmand who was still mumbling under his breath.

Are you the supervisor of this..., young gentleman?

Peter Delbaugh had to stifle a laugh at the manner in which the heavyset short man tried to combine looking down his nose with looking up at the taller valet.  The wealthy jerk managed to combine haughty with stupid at just the right level.  Yes sir.  What seems to be the problem?

This young man parked my car when I arrived, and he just brought it back up.

Yes sir.  That’s his job.

I know that!  The problem is this scratch here.  The apoplectic diner gesticulated toward the driver door of his dark blue Lexus.  There was no scratch there when I arrived here.  By God your establishment will pay for a new paint job or...

"No problem at all Sir.  I’m sure we can settle